Death Ends Not All
by SheWhoScrawls
Summary: "There is a fatality, a feeling so irresistible and inevitable that it has the force of doom, which almost invariably compels human beings to linger around and haunt, ghostlike, the spot where some great and marked event has given the color to their lifet
1. Things That Bleed In The Night

_A/N: Sorry about publishing another story about Emily when I haven't even posted past the first chapter of WITF yet, but the muse struck while reading my new book on Haunted London. Title is from a quote by Sextus Propertius, for those who want to know. It reads, "There is something beyond the grave; death does not end all, and the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre." And yes, this will be an ongoing series with sporadic updates, sometimes three times a day, sometimes once a month. Anyway, hope you enjoy! -SWS_

* * *

_Chapter 1: Things That Bleed In The Night  
_

"It is against all reason that you waste your time upon this subject." Sherlock Holmes was still attempting to discourage me from visiting the famously haunted areas of London.

It would be fruitless for me to argue that I knew that spirits of the supernatural world existed, so I replied with the same response which I had always given in this situation. "Perhaps it is against reason. But if I spend my night upon this activity, I might attempt to prove the story wrong. Then no one shall bother to waste their time with it."

No matter how many times I used this excuse, it was never denied, for Holmes adored the pastime of proving things wrong.

He finally nodded. "Very well," he said. "But maintain the goal to be back by breakfast time, or we shall send the official forces after you."

John merely smiled. He knew that I was not aiming to prove the tale wrong.

"Watson, don't you seem a bit too decided upon this subject?" Holmes turned to his companion.

"I think she is to be trusted alone for one night, don't you, Holmes?"

"Ah, but she will not be alone. Lestrade is going with her."

"All the better, then."

I smiled, tucked my small revolver inside my cloak, and walked out the door, Lestrade meeting me with a hansom cab just as the bells of St. Marylebone Church struck 12 o'clock at night upon 30th March, 1889.

* * *

Arriving at St James's Palace, the guard, a friend of Lestrade, held open the door of the entrance, allowing us to enter.

"I certainly hope this amounts to less than the expeditions my sister forced me to accompany her on as a child," the little Inspector muttered into my ear as we quietly walked the old hallways, moving towards the more famous wing of the palace from which the night's surveillance would be conducted.

"Which expeditions were those?" I asked him as we entered the most haunted section of the old building.

"Just midnight explorations of the old farm next door."

Ah. The usual farm spirits, then. Certainly enough to frighten even a member of the Lestrade family, who were renowned for their tenacity.

"It's no wonder this wing hasn't been touched in 79 years," Lestrade murmured, moving the lantern to secure a pool of light around us.

The hallway we stood in was furnished in pre-Victorian style. Much of the furniture and décor I recognized as Georgian, Tudor, and even Elizabethan.

Tapestries hung on the walls, faded, dusty, and fraying. Tables held vases that must once have contained flowers from Covent Garden, and stiff chairs sat facing the windows, offering a view of one of the four courtyards.

From my pocket I retrieved the police report written following the attack of Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, and the murder of his valet, Joseph Sellis. I turned to the page recording the location of furniture.

Lestrade shone the lantern on the paper so I could read it. Afterwards I looked up and swept the corridor with my gaze. "You are correct, Lestrade," said I in tones hushed with awe. "Nothing here has been touched or moved since the death occurred."

It was positively chilling that such a dark history was preserved so perfectly.

Just then the sky outside was lit up with a blinding flash, immediately followed by a deafening boom of thunder.

Lestrade and I both leaped in shock, clutching our weapons tightly. After a moment, I spoke, surprised by how much my voice shook. "I take it this is the storm which has been expected."

Lestrade swallowed and nodded. "I believe it is, and a more appropriate time for it we could not ask."

It was after one o'clock by this time, and there was nothing to do but station ourselves in the corridor and wait.

* * *

At two o'clock the commotion began with another flash of lightning and ear-splitting burst of thunder.

At first it was drowned out by the sounds of the storm, but after they died away we could hear it: a blood-curdling scream coming from the bedroom which had belonged to the Duke.

Lestrade and I both drew our weapons reflexively and rushed into the room. It was empty, but the sheets were stained with fresh blood. Close to the door, Lestrade bent to pick up an object. He held it up for my inspection. A regimental saber for dueling. And dripping with fresh blood.

The lightning and thunder presented themselves again, and another scream sounded, more of a distance away.

Could it be that the fateful early hours of the morning of 31st May, 1810 were being replayed on the anniversary of the murder?

We rushed to the next hallway over, where Joseph Sellis' bedroom was located.

This time a body lay in the bed. That of Sellis the valet. His throat was slit and a pool of fresh blood was forming underneath him. His hands, as connoted by the legend, were clean. I walked over, heart racing, to look at the washbasin by the side of the bed. The water was stained a dark crimson.

Another flash of lightning, and the body on the bed disappeared, leaving behind the terrible bloodstain.

Then a sound came from outside the room. It was indefinable, almost … inhuman.

We slowly crept back to our original hallway to investigate. Another streak of lightning flickered on the windowpanes, and a figure could be seen walking down the corridor towards us.

It was undoubtedly the body from the bed. His head was still attached but a gaping wound was visible on his neck.

He trailed blood behind him, the scent of the bodily fluid present as well.

He did not seem to acknowledge our presence, but walked to the end of the corridor, where he vanished suddenly in the same way a gas lamp was extinguished.

Lestrade and I checked the Duke's bedchamber. The blood was gone, as was the sword.

Then we returned to the valet's room, finding no body, no blood, and nothing in the washbasin.

* * *

Seven in the morning found us still too frightened to doze off. We had sat in the chairs in the hallway since the incident had occurred, discussing reasons it could or couldn't have been real.

Lestrade glanced out the window, and then at his pocket watch. "You are expected back in close to an hour, young lady."

My mind, still processing what we had seen, took a moment to register this. But then I got up and we began to make our way back to where the guard was stationed before the shift changed at eight o'clock.

On the way down, Lestrade looked at me earnestly. "Though the events appear to have frightened us consequentially, I do honestly tell you that it was a pleasure being your sounding board last night, and should you ever plan another expedition of the kind, I would be most privileged to join you."

"Thank you," I told him, and we fell into silence as we approached the guard's post.

"Was your night a successful one?" he asked us politely.

"Quite so," I replied. "Did you by any chance hear any noises about two o'clock?"

"I heard nothing of the kind," said the guard. "Why do you ask?"

Lestrade shot me a warning glance, and I returned it with a look that I hoped carried the message that of course I wouldn't tell the guard that we had seen any ghosts.

"Inspector Lestrade knocked over our lantern and we hoped it didn't create too much of a disturbance."

As we walked away to hire a cab from the stand at the corner of St. James Place and Pall Mall, Lestrade glared at me. "Emily, that man was formerly a Scotland Yard recruit. I trained him! He's observant. He'll have noticed that our lantern had no oil stains on the side, and that it can't possibly have been knocked over."

"Spur of the moment. Besides, we don't have any reason to return there, so it shouldn't be a problem."

* * *

In case my flatmates weren't up yet, I used my spare key to let myself into 221, Baker St.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of the kitchen at the sound of the door. "Oh, dear, I hope you weren't out in that storm."

"No, Mrs. Hudson."

"Mr. Holmes and the Doctor are up, and have rung for breakfast. Shall I arrange for tea to be sent up as well?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you."

"Not at all, dear," she replied as she took my cloak and shooed me toward the stairs.

Holmes and John both looked up as I entered the sitting room. "Five more minutes and you'd be late," Holmes commented. "So were you successful in proving wrong that nonsensical ghost story?"

"Perhaps," I replied vaguely as I went into my bedroom to record the events precisely as they'd happened.

It was very refreshing to know that I'd proved Sherlock Holmes wrong and he had no idea of it. Perhaps I'd take up Lestrade on his offer so I could feel this satisfaction again.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, Lestrade is a recurring character in this series, hence the only reason he's marked as a character. I hope this was worth your time. More coming soon ;) -SWS_


	2. The Laws of Temple-Haunting

_A/N: Here is chapter 2 up. There are a couple little details I want to make clear at the end, but please enjoy the chapter. -SWS_

* * *

_Chapter 2: The Laws of Temple-Haunting_

"You want me to go to the Temple with you."

I glanced around the busy main office of Scotland Yard, hoping no one was hearing this conversation."Well, you did agree to accompany me in the event that I planned another ... expedition."

Gregson was at his desk, idly pushing a crumpled piece of paper across the wood surface with the tip of a pencil. He was yawning and his eyes showed no interest whatsoever in events going on around him. Thus I deemed it safe to continue the conversation.

"That is true. And I am more than willing to go with you, but Clea's already made dinner plans."

I sighed out of exasperation and sheer irritability, praying for patience. "Inspector Lestrade, the ghost of Henry Hawkins appears in the hours after midnight, so unless Clea is planning a moonlit dinner with no children present -"

"Emily, do not say that word in here, among the ... skeptics."

"What word?" I asked. _Moonlit? Children? Dinner?_

Sighing, Lestrade set his jaw as he snatched a piece of scrap paper and a pencil, scribbling something on the paper, which he pushed toward me.

I picked it up, reading it with raised eyebrows. _Ghost, _it read.

I pushed the paper back to him. "That appeared to be a waste of perfectly good paper," I commented.

Instead of replying, Lestrade's eyes, fixed on a point somewhere over my shoulder, widened to the exaggerated size of dinner plates. "Damn," he whispered, followed by a prayer, most of which was mercifully inaudible.

What on earth? I wondered, and I slowly turned around to see what could have made Lestrade swear and pray at the same time.

Or _who. _Holmes had appeared, and was now quickly winding his way through the desks towards us.

"Curses," I muttered. I turned quickly to Lestrade again. "11 o'clock outside Baker St., then?"

He nodded, and as soon as I had the needed confirmation I turned to leave.

About half way to the door Holmes grabbed me by the arm, preventing me from leaving. "Emily! What in heaven's name are you doing here?"

"Giving Lestrade the weapon you were withholding from the Clerkenwell case," I quickly lied.

"You would not give him that!" exclaimed the great Sherlock Holmes. "I haven't gathered my deductions from it to solve the case yet. These imbeciles will _never _recognize the significance of it!"

My statement had given me enough leverage and Holmes enough shock that he had let go of my arm, and before he could further respond, I had turned on my heel and left the building as quickly as I could.

* * *

Holmes had refused to speak to me for the rest of the evening. I, however, had no reason to worry about it, as it had been my way out of a tight situation.

As I climbed into the cab alongside Lestrade, he shot me a half smirk. "It seems you caused a bit of trouble as you took your leave earlier."

I blushed. I hadn't even thought of what would occur when Holmes approached Lestrade, asking him if I had given him the weapon. Lestrade would realize that _that's _where the murder weapon had disappeared to.

"So he was forced to return it?"

"Or else I appeal to my superiors."

"So that explains his refusal to speak to me all evening."

The inspector's eyebrows shot skywards. "He wouldn't speak to you? That seems childish."

I shot Lestrade a look. "You know his moods."

"That I do." This with a nod.

I still had trouble believing that I'd set a trap for Sherlock Holmes and hadn't realized what I'd done. What was more, Holmes unthinkingly walked straight into it, approaching Lestrade after I left.

I suddenly wished I had been there to see the men's faces.

* * *

"They leave this place unguarded at night?" I asked softly as we approached the huge double doors leading in from the courtyard.

"There are two Scotland Yarders here each night. I fixed the records so MacDonald and I are scheduled for tonight. He's patrolling the other side of the building."

"At least MacDonald isn't a skeptic."

"That's why I chose him. I knew he'd agree."

I smiled knowingly. "Of course. He _is _a Scot."

Lestrade snorted. "So is Bradstreet, but he's in charge of the constables in Bow Street tonight."

"So we're on our own tonight."

"I suppose we could yell for MacDonald if something goes horribly wrong," Lestrade shrugged.

"Reports of the ghost say nothing about it being particularly violent, or even conscious of human presence," I replied as we eased open the heavy door and entered the long empty courts of law.

The silent atmosphere inside the old building was heavy and dark. It weighed down on my shoulders the second I entered the space.

"What time is it?" I whispered, trying not to make any more noise than our loud, echoing footsteps already were.

"Nearly twelve," was Lestrade's reply as he glanced at his watch.

"We're a bit early, then," I said. "He shouldn't make an appearance until at least one."

"A routine walk, then?" Lestrade suggested, implying that we walk around the inside of the building to get a feel for our surroundings.

I nodded in agreement and we set off.

* * *

In general terms, the entire building was the same, comprised of long, splendorous, marble hallways, granite archways, and engraved stairways.

Close to one o'clock we arrived back where we started, and strolled over to sit down on the staircase and wait.

It wasn't long, however, before footsteps manifested themselves above us.

"Do ghosts walk that noisily?" Lestrade breathed as we turned around to face the stairwell landing.

"I have no idea," said I in return. "Do they cast shadows?"

"I haven't the foggiest." Lestrade's brows had risen upward as he perceived the silhouette which flickered in the dim moonlight, growing ever closer to us with each footstep.

In the heavy silence we waited until the actual figure came into view, dressed in the traditional garb of a judge. The man wore a long, black robe and on his head was an immense powdered wig.

"Is that Henry Hawkins?" Lestrade whispered uncertainly into my ear. "He looks much too ... solid."

"It looks exactly like him, though," I pointed out. "And he's even carrying the papers."

I peered closer to affirm my statement. It was true: the robed figure held in his arms a huge bundle of papers. He continued on down the stairs, not acknowledging our presence, and when he reached the bottom, an awed duo of Lestrade and I parted to allow Judge Hawkins room to pass in between us. He did so with no emotion or acknowledgment, and as he did a cool breeze blew a strand of hair across my face.

Lestrade and I turned around to watch him as he continued down the hallway towards the door that led out the front of the Temple. But as he walked, the cool breeze that followed him took up one of the papers, which was carried out of his grasp, and fluttered down to rest upon the floor. Henry Hawkins made no move to retrieve it.

Instead he kept on walking until he reached the end of the hall. We could not tell if he opened the door and left through it, or else walked _through _the door. He simply dematerialized.

I knelt and picked up the paper, gesturing for Lestrade to come stand by one of the tall, mullioned windows with me so we could read it by the light of the moon.

"What does it say?" asked Lestrade, excited and breathless.

I opened my mouth. "It's the first page of a witness statement," I said, and began to read it. "A statement of the witness, Miss Eliza Whitney, in her testimony for the defence of Mr. Jonathan Landon, being accused of abduction and willful murder in the investigation by the Metropolitan Police of Scotland Yard. Presented before the courts on 23rd May, 1853."

"Jonathan Landon..." Lestrade murmured. "I've heard of this case."

"You have?" I asked, surprised. "What about it?"

"Well, not much," Lestrade said. "Holmes mentioned the name and date in passing once."

_Oh. _Like a one-time reference to the past misconceptions of Scotland Yard was supposed to be any help whatsoever.

We studied the document for a moment more before a cry of surprise sounded from outside, followed by the loud bang of the door closing and hurried footsteps coming towards us. Somehow I didn't think that Judge Hawkins realized he had forgotten one of his papers.

Sure enough, it wasn't our too-solid ghost. MacDonald appeared, out of breath and quite shaken.

Without waiting for a word from us, he breathlessly began to rant. "On my grandmother's prize-winning oat cakes -"

"On _what?_" I muttered into Lestrade's ear. Being Scottish myself, I knew this was not one of the popular euphemisms in the northern parts.

"- He passed right through me!" MacDonald continued.

"Surely you aren't surprised, Alec," I told him soothingly. "Judge Hawkins _is, _after all, a ghost."

Inspector Alec MacDonald violently shook his head. "Not at all, it was just a reflex I picked up in my early days as a constable in Edinburgh."

"So ... if something walks through you, yell and run for backup." I narrowed my eyes at him.

As he threw out his arms in a wild gesture of exasperation, Lestrade waved the paper in front of our faces. "Never mind that, look at this!" He exclaimed at MacDonald. "Hawkins dropped it. It's made of actual paper!"

_Utterly brilliant, Lestrade._

"I swear to you, Lestrade, he wasn't solid. He walked right through me. It felt like taking an ice bath in the Thames!"

I turned to Lestrade. "Do non-material ghosts carry material paper?" I asked.

"Do non-material ghosts create echoing footsteps and cast shadows?" he asked in reply.

He made a good point. Unless MacDonald was lying, which was far more unlikely than the alternative, our ghost was real, despite any qualities that may have appeared to belong to some more human presence.

In any case, the haunting was over. "MacDonald," said Lestrade, "cover for me while I accompany this young woman home."

* * *

At Baker St. I alighted from the cab with the mysterious document still tucked into my pocket, too exhausted to ask Lestrade if he wanted to take it.

Wearily, I let myself into the house just as the grandfather clock struck a quarter until three in the morning and began to walk up the familiar 17 stairs.

On entering the sitting room I perceived John sitting in the armchair with the latest issue of the Strand Magazine. I pictured what Holmes would do if he saw the thing anywhere within the premise of 221, Baker St. Obviously he didn't know about the secret stash Mrs. Hudson kept tucked in the back cupboard of the kitchen.

"Is Holmes out?" I asked him, interest piqued ever so slightly.

"Yes," he answered tiredly. "The lunatic made me promise to wait up for him."

"Well, since he's out and you're up ... would you happen to know where to find his case study on the court trial of Jonathan Landon in 1853?"

If Holmes had referenced it even in passing, he had to have made a study of it.

John raised a finger to signify one moment, and disappeared into Holmes' bedroom, returning after a short moment with a surprisingly thin file. Evidence must have been scant that case.

I took it from him, uttering a thanks. "In that case, I believe I shall retire," I informed him, and traipsed up the stairs to my bedroom.

Several minutes later I sat down on my bed, wondering how much I would be able to read before my eyes willed themselves closed.

It turned out to be barely a page before I was forced to set the papers on my bedside table, and I drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

* * *

The next morning when I awoke, I went to the mirror to get dressed. Just as I was about to tie up my hair, I paused as I saw a reflection in the mirror and turned to have a look at the material thing.

My eyes did not deceive me. Holmes' case file still lay there beside my gas lamp, but the paper we had taken from the Temple had disappeared.

And then I knew: the ghost had been real, and the paper could not exist in this dimension for an extended period. It had gone to join the judge who had presided over the case.

I walked down to the sitting room to join my two companions for breakfast. "This came for you," John said, handing me a plain envelope.

I slit it open with a finger as I sat down. I took out the paper inside, which was a note from Lestrade, written hastily on a piece of Scotland Yard's stationery.

_Emily,_

Re our very material ghost: the 6th of October, being today's date, is the anniversary of Hawkins' death. It appears that on the anniversary of their demise, ghosts may follow the same routine, yet take a more realistic form.

I sincerely hope Holmes is more agreeable today.

- Lestrade

Seeing my smile upon reading the end of the note, Holmes narrowed his eyes at me. "What is it?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing of this world," I replied mysteriously, sliding the edge of the envelope under my plate for safe keeping.

* * *

_A/N: So. First of all, all the chapters for this story stick very closely to the actual stories of ghost sightings, but some may have a small embellishment of mine to heighten the interest. In this case it was the paper that Hawkins dropped. Second: Henry Hawkins did not die until the 6th of October, 1907, but I did not realize that until I was done with the chapter. So forgive that small bit of inaccuracy, since I'd already put a lot of effort into writing it and didn't want it to go to waste. Thanks for reading, all :) -SWS_


	3. The Demon of Newgate - Part 1

_A/N: Woot, chapter 3! I apologize for the lack of activity that occurs on weekends, but the computer I have access to on Friday-Sunday has done nothing over the past year to earn my trust. Now, this is the first of a three-part series, so more to come very soon ... Enjoy the ensuing nightmares! -SWS_

* * *

All is dark along Deadman's Walk. The lamps which light the streets of nighttime London always shun the narrow passageway – its history is too melancholy for anyone but the prisoners who are led down the Walk to their deaths.

Dogs can be heard barking from a house on Ludgate Hill, and drunken lyrics sound from a public house on Warwick Lane.

No sound nor movement comes from Deadman's Walk. Those who have heard the legends know enough to stay away – especially in the hours of darkness.

Inside Newgate Prison, two cellmates are still awake, whispering to each other in aristocratic accents which one would scarcely think to find in such a hellish place. Those people have undoubtedly forgotten that wealth can quickly turn to greed, and greed to murder, that idle hands are the devil's playthings, and that money is the root of all kinds of evil.

"I've sent the signal," says the one, pacing by the locked door of the cell. He turns to his companion, who sits in the corner, face obscured by shadows. "You do think he'll come?"

By the dim moonlight which shines through the barred window high upon the wall, the man in the shadows observes that his friend's pallor is practically translucent. In fact, his own hands are clammy. "He's never let us down before, Holmes."

A sigh from the taller man, who continues to pace restlessly. "Watson, never have we been trapped in Newgate Prison, awaiting a death sentence."

The man in the corner has lost his stiff, military posture. He runs a weary hand through his hair. "If Lestrade doesn't come –"

"- Then nothing shall keep us from the hangman's noose."

* * *

Outside in the darkness and shadows, Inspector Lestrade has seen the light of the candle held up in the window of the cell. He knows that this is the signal, for it has come at the appointed time, and it looks as if it's the correct window as well.

He begins to move towards the building, out of the alley in which he has been hidden for so long.

A hand reaches out of the dampness and grabs his arm. "Shall I come with you, Inspector?" he whispers through the darkness.

"No, Bradley, stay here and watch," hisses Lestrade in reply as he yanks his arm free and begins to advance once again.

Young Constable Bradley holds his breath as he watches his superior disappear into the menacing night. Once he is left alone he shivers and tightens his dark woolen coat about his person. He jumps spectacularly when he hears the howl of a dog somewhere closer than Ludgate Hill.

Deeper in the alley a dark shape begins to take shape. It is darker than the night – carrying the bridled darkness of hell. It grows into a more realistic shape, large paws growing sharp, grimy claws, tail forming a point, and mouth opening to reveal frothing jaws and a fire burning deep back in its throat.

It growls, a low, demonic sound, and begins to slowly stalk the silhouette of the frightened constable.

* * *

In another half of the city, a teenaged girl has fallen asleep in front of the fireplace, waiting for news from Lestrade.

She had stayed awake for hours, pacing the hearthrug and checking the time. It is far too late … the signal should have been sent by now … she should have heard something …

She worried until it exhausted her, and eventually she collapsed into the armchair before her legs completely gave out, carefully folded the appendages under her heavy skirt, and drifted off immediately, face turned to the warmth of the fire.

Now she sleeps fitfully. Her dreams are full of the worst case scenarios she can never help but imagine.

_They have found the evidence they need to prove that the warden is guilty of the recent murders in Newgate Prison. But it is more than conspicuous when these two prisoners are searching for answers, when the others derive pleasure merely from hearing about the horrible crimes. _

_ Though perhaps it was not the best idea to put them under admission in the prison as murder suspects themselves – for now they are scheduled for execution in two days. _

_ The warden comes to fetch them in the morning, and finds the cell a bloodbath. He smiles, and remembers what a pleasure it was to end their lives early. _

_ And somewhere outside the window, lurks a grimy, shaggy black dog. He growls, bares his teeth, ears pricked forward and the fire of hell burning on his tongue._

Emily jerks awake, out of that fearsome sense of reality, breath coming hard and fast. She sees that the last dying embers of the fire are cooling more by the second, but she does not make a move to stir them.

She leans forward in her chair, resting her head, damp with sweat and tears, in her hands, attempting to steady herself and regain composure.

After a few moments, she takes a shaky breath and stands up. She walks as silently as possible down 17 stairs and fetches her cloak from the stand in the hallway. She pulls it over her shoulders and silently slips out the door into the cold night, hoping Mrs. Hudson will realize where she has gone.

* * *

Constable Bradley feels a presence as the beast silently slips past him. He hardly has to look down, as the creature is unusually large. Then he sees a figure, skinny and underfed, blacker than the night. It turns its head and fixes its glowing red eyes on him before walking on.

Bradley knows not what sort of curiosity has piqued inside him, but it is enough that he follows what has appeared to be the creature's beckoning.

He follows it through a curving, twisting labyrinth of mews, and it turns its head now and again to see if Bradley is still keeping pace.

The Constable wonders who is going to die.

The creature of shadows leads him down an old set of crumbling stone steps into an ancient antechamber near St. Paul's Cathedral.

He stands in the dark, the beast's eyes seen glowing in the farthest corner.

Bradley shakily and clumsily lights the lantern he was smart enough to bring with him. He shines it around the room. Immediately three letters scrawled in blood on the wall catch his attention: YOU.

* * *

Holmes has not ceased his pacing. His hands are clasped behind his back, fists clenching and unclenching in agitation.

The Doctor, still sprawled in the corner, is by this point far too weary to acknowledge much. "How the devil did you get us into this mess, anyhow?" he asks, voice slurred with exhaustion.

"A clandestine investigation from an inside view. No one was supposed to pick _us _for execution over all the murder suspects here."

Watson pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "It couldn't be forgery, could it?"

Holmes lets out a breath, one which contains a hidden note of despair. "You do know who recommended us for the stroll down Deadman's Walk?"

Watson nodded grimly, his silhouette barely visible. "Warden Andrews."

The men both jump as the lock on the door of the cell clicks, and the door creaks open.

Watson jumps up to stand beside Holmes in the center of the stone floor.

The Warden leans casually against the door frame, smiling pleasantly as he twirls his nightstick. "So you know, Mr. Holmes."

* * *

_A/N: Ooh, a cliffhanger! Well, it's a three parter for a reason! Pleasant dreams ... Mwa-ha-ha ... -SWS_


End file.
